


Roots

by Ivegotaheadlineforyou



Category: Hadestown - Mitchell
Genre: Canon Era, During Chant, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hermes checks in on Eurydice, Mentions of other Gods - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:48:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24920335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ivegotaheadlineforyou/pseuds/Ivegotaheadlineforyou
Summary: Hermes goes to find Orpheus once the winter sets in. He finds Eurydice instead.
Relationships: Eurydice & Hermes (Hadestown), Eurydice/Orpheus (Hadestown)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30





	Roots

**Author's Note:**

> Two fics in one week? Who'da thunk it.
> 
> Thanks to Jo @ratcarney for the prompt <3 
> 
> Hadestown belongs to Anais Mitchell, gods bless her soul.

The snow had settled, and it seemed as though the village by the tracks had been deserted. No foot prints tracking through the town square. Nothing leading to the small plots of lands or the farms that lay beyond the towns centre. 

As Hermes slipped on his silver coat, and opened his umbrella above his head, he set off through the gothic air of the town, allowing himself to walk with little weight, keeping himself on top of the snow as not to disturb it.

Were Demeter or one of her Nymphs to venture out of the forests and into the town, she would be furious at the steps in the snow. Hermes rolled his eyes at the prospect of the old Goddess throwing another one of her winter fits. With Persephone gone, Demeter allowed nothing to grow. She said she was in mourning for the death of her daughter. “She’s the Bringer of Death, boy,” she said, still referring to Hermes as though he were a young man. “She brings my death every autumn, and refuses to revive me until the spring. We must mourn her loss.” 

The Gods had allowed Persephone to marry, had allowed her this wretched prenup, and had allowed Demeter to punish those who worshipped her. Hermes was forced to watch. Forced to accompany the souls he knew and celebrated with up top, to their final resting place on the assembly line.

Orpheus lived on the outskirts of the city, the small cottage he and Eurydice had bought together only thing they could have afforded. The Poet had seen the small cottage and had painted pictures in Eurydice’s mind. “We’ll paint the place blue, like the sky on the day we met! And we’ll get a bed and sleep in until the sun is high!” He said, spinning her in circles. 

“And we can fill the bed with soft things,” she giggled. “ _Oh,_ my own bed. Imagine such a thing.” Orpheus looked at her and pulled her in for a kiss, his hands with the long, nimble fingers finding comfort in the curve of her jaw.

“We have enough for it, Eurydice. To set down roots,” Orpheus said smiling. “It might not be changing the world, but it will change ours.”

How the boy knew how to spin stories. It was already mid August when they bought the place, turned in almost every coin they had to finally call the small patch of land their own. The couple wandered through the day, a different town each day. Orpheus played for coins that no one felt safe enough to spare, and Eurydice worked bars, or told stories for nightly meals.

Sometimes they met kind souls. A family gave them a worn mattress one night, in exchange for entertainment at dinner. The two lovers carried their prize home with them, and by the time they arrived back at the cottage, they were punch drunk on love and the promise of a good night sleep. 

Hermes continued out to the cottage, passing abandoned farms. Summer campgrounds tortured by winds and rain. In a place where dust settled on every surface given enough time, snow did the same in the months the sun was hidden.

The cottage appeared over the horizon and it sent a chill down Hermes’ spine. Were it not for a single candle flickering in the window, he would have mistaken it for an abandoned shack. The shingles that Orpheus never fixed. The door that was holding onto it’s hinges for dear life.

He had seen this sight far too many times.

He scoffed at the horrid way he had to stand by and watch. Eileithyia, were she to turn away from a child in need, would be reprimanded with a crackling lightening bolt. Both Demeter and Hades had forgotten their domains in their war for the goddess of spring, and Olympus was turning a blind eye.

Hermes cursed his contemporaries. For with all his godly powers, he should have been able to stop this -- stop the suffering, the starvation. With everyone turning a blind eye, Hermes wanted nothing more than to act within his realm; to deliver salvation.

But, after cycles of trying to intervene, he knew his place. He had suffered needlessly in the past, but it never worked. The story of Orpheus and his wife was set in stone.

He stepped up to the door and knocked gently. On the other side of the door, he heard things go silent. And then a breath. And then, as though whoever was on the other side of the door was pressed against the frame, he heard a whisper: “Who’s there?”

“It’s me,” He responded, injecting as much warmth into his voice as he could. After a moment of shuffling, the door opened slightly.

“Get inside, quickly,” she said, her voice frantic and worrisome as she held the door open for the god. He dropped the umbrella and stepped inside. He was surprised to see Eurydice here alone — it was quiet early on in the winter, and Orpheus usually stayed closer to home in the early days.

“I’m here to see Orpheus,” Hermes said. Eurydice rolled her eyes, and wrapped her arms around herself tighter. Her tights were frayed, her dress tattered. Her skin looked paler than it should have, and he could see the goosebumps that had tattooed themselves onto her arms and shoulders.

“He’s… He’s not here. He’s out. Writing.” She spoke in short sentences. Clipped. As if she needed to save her words, lest she run out.

“Eurydice…” Hermes started, but she shook her head and stopped him in his tracks.

“Can I get you something? Tea? We only have mint but I can get you that?” She had a steel in her eyes. Hermes knew that it had been put there after years of fending for herself. He could also sense a deep embarrassment. That never left her at this point in their story. She was embarrassed to have let her walls down, and to have allowed someone in. 

He wanted to shake Orpheus. He wanted to bring him home. Tell him that his song could wait until spring. Eurydice, with her blue lips, and her shaking hands, couldn’t.

“Nah, girl,” he murmured, reaching for her hand. She looked down at his hand, war worn and weathered, before sliding her hand into his. He squeezed her fingers slightly, guiding her to the small table and chairs. “Just sit with me for a moment.” Eurydice nodded, and went to sit.

A shiver ran up her spine and she clenched her jaw to make the movement stop. She averted her eyes, unwilling to look at the high and mighty god, the child of Olympus, as he watched her struggle to stand, to cope.

“Where’s your poet?” He said, not letting go of her hand. He was slowly trying to warm her from his grasp — something he learned years ago he could do. Weary travellers were his domain, and she was weary, and had travelled so far to find a place to set down roots. Only now that she was here, the soil was to hard to penetrate. No roots could grow here.

“He’s writing his song,” She said, her glance on the table. “He’s going to bring spring back, Mister Hermes, I know he is.” She had ice in her voice. Fierce. Protective. Desperate. She sounded like she was trying to convince herself of this fact. But Hermes knew — he had already heard the song. 

“I know he will,” Hermes assured her. “I know he will. But in the mean time?” 

She pulled her hand out of his and stood up. She bit her lip, only to stop a moment later. Her skin was too thin, she might bleed. Hermes wanted to storm up to Olympus, demand someone put a stop to Demeter’s reign of terror. To get someone to bring Persephone home early, _anything_ to stop the girl who inspired the song that would bring the world back into tune from starving.

But he couldn’t do anything but watch. But bring her down below when the time came. To send Orpheus down the long way around. 

Hermes was doomed to watch the story play out around him, with no way to influence the roles. 

“I’ll be fine, Hermes. And I’m sorry but you need to leave now. I need to go round to the bakers soon. I heard whisper that they had some leftovers they were willing to give away.”

Hermes bowed his head, and smiled gently at her, making his way to the door. He stopped before he opened it, and turned back to her.

“Tell the Poet I came to see him, aight?” He said. She nodded and grinned as much as she could. 

“Aight,” she whispered back to him, and with that, he opened the door, and slid out. The door was shut before most would realise it was even open. 

Out in the snow, Hermes hung his head, his chin resting against his chest. He was too old for this. Too old to watch the young lovers, who in every way should set the world back on it’s axis. But he had to watch. Affect the story where he could. And tell it again and again once the poet lost his wife for good. Once the poet lost his wife. 

His job was to protect the orators, the travellers, the lovers who dream of a better tomorrow. His tithe was to watch it all happen, over and over again.

But after all this time, Hermes still wasn’t sure it was worth it. 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @IveGotAHeadlineForYou. I'm on hiatus, but I'll be here in the meantime :)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
